


Liberated

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: Adventure of Sinbad (Anime), Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hair Kink, Loyalty, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-23 12:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ja’far isn’t sure and has never been able to make himself ask, to put such clear words to the devotion that Sinbad inspires in him and that he makes such effort to conceal; but the fact is that Sinbad knows absolutely how to manipulate the outcome of any particular argument that Ja’far brings before him." Ja'far tries to focus, and Sinbad succeeds in distracting.





	Liberated

Sinbad has beautiful hair.

Ja’far isn’t one to linger excessively on aesthetics. His life before he met Sinbad was one focused on efficiency and efficacy, and even the years he has had since then have done very little to change his fundamental attention to accomplishing the task at hand more than worrying about how he looks doing it. He keeps his own hair cut short more from the utility of keeping it out of his face than from any compelling vanity, and however much he may dislike his slim frame and minimal height his distaste has more to do with the relative limitations on his strength than any concern with appearances. He likes the simplicity of the uniform he adopted with the formation of the Sindria Trading Company, and has held to it with only a few alterations at Sinbad’s insistence as his position changed from that of an accountant to an advisor. Ja’far is confident in his ability to do the job at hand, whether that is managing delicate diplomatic negotiations or serving as bodyguard to a king who is all too prone to finding himself on the wrong end of a deadly weapon, and that’s enough to satisfy him for the greater part of his existence.

Sinbad is something else. Sinbad was different the first moment Ja’far saw him, and he has continued without so much as a flicker of mediocrity over all the years since. He exudes dominance, claims control by assumption more than right in any situation, and he carries his sense of confidence in every part of him, from the elaborate jewelry he favored even before he gained his plethora of Djinni to the sumptuous fabric of his clothing and the lavish beauty with which he surrounds himself. Ja’far might roll his eyes at the luxury of the palace from his position as Sinbad’s confidant, but he’s too well-versed in intrigue to underestimate the importance of displaying one’s power and wealth as overtly as possible. People bow their heads to the throne itself as much as to the figure who sits on it, and Ja’far can’t deny that Sinbad carries himself with the self-assurance that suits the excess with which he fills his surroundings. He seems to grow larger with every accessory, as if his setting allows him the space to expand into what he truly is capable of being, until it is difficult, sometimes, for Ja’far to see the man beneath the radiance of the king.

He does, of course. Ja’far takes his role as advisor as seriously as he takes anything else, and foremost among his self-assigned duties is to manage Sinbad’s ego, however much it tries to struggle free of his control over it. Sinbad has succeeded at nearly everything to which he has set himself; those occasions of his failure are all due to an excess of arrogance, when his natural, intoxicating self-assurance grows greater than his true ability and throws him headlong into a crisis sized to match the attempt made. The best Ja’far can do in his position to keep Sinbad safe is to protect him from himself, and that comes with the necessity of resisting the greater part of the charm and allure which he so easily exudes. Ja’far has known Sinbad a long time, long enough to have seen the greater number of those failures first-hand; and so he knows that Sinbad is only human, that underneath his gorgeous clothing and exquisite jewels he is as mortal as the rest of them.

Ja’far is good at his job. He can hold his shoulders straight, can fix his mouth on a frown, can resist the overwhelming force of King Sinbad surrounded by all the trapping of the position that is his claim but not his identity. Sometimes he thinks he’s the only source of resistance in the whole of Sinbad’s life, the only person who can roll his eyes at the show and insist on the basic facts of a reality that seems to bend itself to Sinbad’s will as much as everyone else. But however he resists Sinbad’s show of importance, however easily he pushes back against the king’s whims, he is no more infallible than Sinbad, and if the king does not sway him nothing can bring him to his knees faster than the man himself.

Ja’far doesn’t know how long it took Sinbad to determine this weak point in his armor. It was years before he was certain Sinbad knew of it, before he could confirm that Sinbad’s actions were a deliberate attack on his composure and not the frightening intuition that the other frequently displays. Maybe Sinbad has always known, maybe he caught a glimpse of it in that moment all those years ago when he slipped his way into the very core of Ja’far’s psyche to claim the soul of the terrified boy trapped within it as another of his treasures. Ja’far isn’t sure and has never been able to make himself ask, to put such clear words to the devotion that Sinbad inspires in him and that he makes such effort to conceal; but the fact is that Sinbad knows, now if not well before, and that he knows absolutely how to manipulate the outcome of any particular argument that Ja’far brings before him.

Ja’far doesn’t even remember what it was he needed to speak about. It was important, that much he is sure of -- he never brings trivialities to Sinbad, when it is easier and more efficient to deal with them himself whenever he can. So it must have been important, something delicate or significant enough to merit the other’s time; but when Ja’far attempted to broach the subject Sinbad had met him with a hand at the back of his head, and the duck of his chin to press his mouth to Ja’far’s, and all Ja’far’s noble intentions had disintegrated on contact. He had made a valiant effort at protest -- it’s not as if this is the first time Sinbad has applied this technique to put off resolving an issue -- but it proved as effective as it ever is, which is to say successful only in purring amusement into Sinbad’s throat and pressing his mouth to a long, slow exploration of Ja’far’s own. Ja’far had been forced to free his hands from his sleeves to clutch at Sinbad’s shoulders, first with the intention of steadying himself and then just to stay on his feet, and in a very short period of time thereafter he ended up in the middle of Sinbad’s enormous bed, his clothing stripped and abandoned somewhere along the few steps that brought them there, and Sinbad leaning over him in a similar state of undress.

There is nothing Ja’far can do. He has lost, knew his surrender was an inevitability from the moment he lifted his head to see the shadows in Sinbad’s golden gaze focus and darken at the sight of him; the rest of this is no more than a dance, an elaborate show of resistance that only presses Sinbad to greater efforts of persuasion for an already-willing partner. Ja’far’s frown gives way to parted lips, his words melt into breathless groans at the press of Sinbad’s hands to his body, and so it is that he has found himself here, pinned down against the soft of Sinbad’s luxuriously tangled sheets while the owner of those same leans in over him, his smile bright enough to shine radiant past the shadow cast by his hair falling loose around his shoulders to pool around Ja’far’s upturned face.

“You,” Ja’far manages, clutching desperately for words as the last resistance he has left to him while his skin flushes hot and his muscles melt to supple pliancy for no more than the idle wandering of Sinbad’s fingers across his chest, thigh, hip. “Sin, this is  _ important_.”

“Mm,” Sinbad purrs, and turns his head so he can dip down and touch his mouth to the soft space under Ja’far’s jaw, where the motion of his speech thrums to tension. Ja’far’s head goes back, his lashes fluttering in spite of himself; his fingers reach for handholds in the loose weight of Sinbad’s hair, his grip tightens to a fist around a half-done braid that still lingers over the other’s ear. “I agree with you completely, Ja’far.” His mouth works down, trailing against the line of Ja’far’s throat; Ja’far presses his lips tight together over the whimper that tries to spill free from his chest, but even with his mouth shut he’s sure the faint whine of it is perfectly clear to someone as close to him as Sinbad is. “You’re always right, of course.”

Ja’far steadies himself, tightening his fingers and fixing his gaze on the far side of the room in an attempt to hold himself firmly to his goal. “I’m glad you recognize  _ that _ much,” he attempts, but Sinbad is working down his bare chest and his voice skips high in spite of himself, breaking into a crack that gives up any illusion of composure he might have mustered. Ja’far lets his breath go in a rush so he can draw another lungful and try again. “I’m serious, Sin, you have to listen to me for once.”

“I’m listening,” Sinbad murmurs so close against Ja’far’s skin that the sound spills down Ja’far’s spine to knot heat into his already aching cock. Sinbad’s lips are soft, the sweet of his tongue still clinging to Ja’far’s mouth; Ja’far’s imagination considers the distance between Sinbad’s words and the trembling angle of his hips, wonders if maybe he shouldn’t be pushing Sinbad down instead of trying to pull him up. “You have my complete attention.” His head comes up, his dark-lashed gaze fixes on Ja’far beneath him. Ja’far feels the brief, intense vertigo that always follows Sinbad’s focus, like the force of the earth beneath him is reorienting itself to grow stronger just from the addition of what effort Sinbad can bring to bear on it. “What is it that you want from me, Ja’far?”

Ja’far takes a breath. “I want…” His thoughts slide, his breathing catches. At his hip Sinbad’s thumb slides, tracing a tiny arc over his skin; Ja’far can feel the texture of the other’s hand catching and pressing to his own as if that’s the only thing in all the world, as if all his childhood training and continued attentiveness was for this single, sole purpose. He presses his lips together and frowns himself into a grimace at Sinbad over him. “That’s not fair, Sin.”

Sinbad’s smile is slow, stretching itself across his lips with the languid grace of the king he is, easy and elegant in his self-assurance. “I never promised fair,” he says, and rises back up over the support of his elbow against the bed to cast Ja’far into the purple-blue of his shadow. “I will give you what you want, though.” His knee slides up over the bed, the top of his thigh catches beneath Ja’far’s to angle the other’s legs apart. Ja’far’s back curves, his hips tilting in spite of himself as Sinbad fits himself closer into the space between his legs. Sinbad tilts his head, angling the curve of his smile as he leans in closer to where Ja’far is gazing up at him. “Ask and you shall receive.”

Ja’far huffs out a breath. “I want you to  _ listen _ to me.”

“I am listening,” Sinbad says again, with a little more force than before. His shoulders work under the brace of Ja’far’s hand; his thighs flex to tilt his hips forward. The heat of his cock brushes against Ja’far’s skin, the pressure brief but enough to shudder anticipation all the way up Ja’far’s spine. Sinbad’s smile goes wider. “Do you think I’m not?”

“You’re distracting me,” Ja’far protests. “Sin, if you--” and his voice breaks off, giving way to breathless heat as Sinbad rocks forward to urge his body close against Ja’far’s beneath him. His cock presses hard against Ja’far’s, weighting down against the other’s to burst sparks of heat under Ja’far’s skin in answer. Ja’far’s fingers twist in Sinbad’s hair, his arms flex to drag against the heavy weight spilling around him. “_Ah_.”

“What do you want?” Sinbad purrs. His hips are shifting, sliding over Ja’far’s with rhythmic intent; Ja’far is arching up in answer, his body responding even as he tries to clutch and cling to his initial subject. “I’ll give it to you, Ja’far.” His head turns, his lips touch against Ja’far’s cheekbone; Ja’far loses his breath to a moan, the sound spilling up his throat in spite of himself. He can feel Sinbad smile against his skin. “Just ask.”

Ja’far spends his new-drawn breath, exhaling hard enough to ruffle the loose strands of Sinbad’s hair. He wants to push back, wants to dig his heels into protest and set his mouth on a scowl and drag Sinbad back to the responsibilities he sheds as easily as he stripped his elegant clothes and heavy jewels. But his cock is aching, throbbing with the force of his heart pounding in his chest, and with Sinbad’s body pressing between his thighs his attention refuses to be brought to any greater focus. Ja’far tightens his grip, curling his fingers to a fist on Sinbad’s hair, before he sighs resignation and lets his last attempt at restraint slide free.

“Anything you want,” he says, and the words are true as they pass his lips, stripped free of the sarcasm he might have tried to infuse them with otherwise. Ja’far slides his free hand up, tracing over the span of Sinbad’s shoulders to brace the other within the angle of his elbow as he lifts his head to press his forehead to the curve of the other’s collarbone. “I want you to do whatever you want with me, Sin.”

Sinbad’s laugh feels like heat through every fiber of Ja’far’s body. “As you wish,” he says, and leans in hard against the elbow he has holding himself up over the other. His free hand tightens against Ja’far’s hip, bracing tight so he can hitch the other up higher off the bed, and Ja’far is just hooking his knee around Sinbad’s hip when Sinbad rocks himself forward to thrust into him. Ja’far’s leg tightens, his shoulders strain, and when he exhales it pulls hot in his chest to come out as a moan that dips low and trembling in the tension of his throat. Sinbad purrs, sounding as much satisfied by Ja’far’s reaction as pleased with his own experience, and shifts his knee at the bed so he can urge in closer. His shoulders flex under Ja’far’s bracing arm, his thigh presses tight to Ja’far’s leg, and when he rocks forward again Ja’far feels the friction of Sinbad pressing inside him clenching up his spine to flash brilliance at the base of his neck and the backs of his eyes.

Ja’far has never known Sinbad to hesitate in taking anything he wanted, and this is no exception. He moves at once, pulling back to take a long stroke forward and sink himself into Ja’far before drawing back once more, finding a rhythm that has him pressing forward for another thrust while Ja’far is still shuddering with the heat that radiates from the first. Ja’far’s fingers are clutching at whatever he has claimed, one hand fisted in Sinbad’s hair and the other digging bruise-dark at the skin over the other’s shoulder, but if Sinbad notices either it is only a spur to his satisfaction. His shoulders curve closer, his hair spills forward around Ja’far beneath him, and Ja’far holds to Sinbad over him and lets himself be carried away, lets Sinbad take his body as entirely as he has claimed the rest of his existence. His responsibilities give way, swept aside by the heat of Sinbad pressing him to the bed; the endless everyday concerns that form his life disintegrate, pushed aside as carelessly as Sinbad drops what would be treasures to someone else. His worries, his anxieties, his irritations: all give way, surrendering at once to the tidal force Sinbad brings with him, until all Ja’far can do is cling to the other’s shoulders and let himself be swept away. Sinbad is with him, breathing hard at the side of his neck and holding tight to his hip and working into him with long, certain strokes, and Ja’far is as overcome as he always inevitably is.

Sinbad’s presence is overwhelming, the experience of him the more intense for the intimacy that comes with this, with the trappings of his power and position laid bare to leave just the brilliant core of himself that so illuminated Ja’far’s existence on their first meeting. Ja’far can’t hold to his own attention, can’t claim focus for himself; he is guided by Sinbad’s motion, Sinbad’s actions, Sinbad’s desire, until his own orgasm startles him with how little he anticipates it. Sinbad is moving over him, his rhythm unhesitating and unaffected by the trembling of Ja’far’s fingers or the flex of his angled-open thighs, until Ja’far feels like they could continue forever, as if this might be the whole of the world and the sum of everything he has ever wanted all at once. Sensation rushes through him with each of Sinbad’s motions, climbing up his spine and spilling desperate heat past his lips, and then Sinbad’s hips snap forward to bear him through a sharp, certain stroke, and Ja’far’s body shudders with the lightning force of pleasure that courses through him. His shoulders tighten against the sheets; his fingers flex in Sinbad’s hair; his throat closes hard against the heat in his chest; and he comes at once, satisfaction rushing through him in waves to match the heat his cock is spilling over his stomach. Ja’far’s eyes are open but his vision is absent, blown out to impossible white like his gaze has been swallowed up by too-much illumination, but he can hear the sound of Sinbad laughing, a low note that hums against his chest even before the other leans in to press his lips to the soft space below Ja’far’s ear. Ja’far’s head turns, surrendering on an instinct thoroughly stripped from his control, now, and when Sinbad keeps moving into the tremors of his pleasure he can only cling to the other’s shoulders and gasp for air from the heat that has swallowed him.

Ja’far’s vision has returned to him by the time Sinbad’s shoulders begin to tense with anticipation and the breathing against his neck is dragging deep on pleasure. His body feels weak, drained and heavy after his release; he doesn’t think he could hold himself up against Sinbad leaning over him, if left to his own devices. But Sinbad has a fixed hold on him, now, his hand pressing hard to the curve at the base of Ja’far’s spine to lock them close, and Ja’far doesn’t need to exert any part of his strength to brace them together. He contemplates this for a moment, as his gaze lingers at the tapestries on the wall and his fingers shift in Sinbad’s hair; and then he musters what strength remains to him, and he wraps both his arms close around Sinbad’s shoulders to urge the other closer. There is nowhere to go -- Ja’far is already flat at the bed, and Sinbad is so near over him that the heat of their bodies is blurring to one -- but Sinbad still groans pleasure to Ja’far’s neck, and presses himself tighter to the other’s body, until Ja’far can feel the flex of motion run all through Sinbad against him from the work of his thighs through the tension of his stomach and up to the strain in his shoulders. Their bodies move together, heat radiating between them as Sinbad urges them ever nearer, until when Sinbad draws to a taut line of expectation Ja’far feels the expectation closing to a fist around his own chest as much as that pressing him down. Sinbad drags a breath from against Ja’far’s skin, and when he groans Ja’far feels the pleasure breaking through the whole of him, arms and shoulders and breathing as much as the heat of Sinbad filling him.

It is a long span before Sinbad shifts his position. Ja’far’s heart is racing, rushing his breathing to panting haste even as his body shudders with the aftershocks of his release; Sinbad’s hold on him doesn’t loosen, even after his rhythmic motion has given way to stillness. Even when Sinbad does move it’s only fractionally, just enough to fit his arm around Ja’far’s waist to brace them together before he lets himself ease to the bed, somewhat to the side so he spares Ja’far his whole weight. It’s still more than enough to keep Ja’far in place, pinned to the sheets where Sinbad laid him, but he still has his arms and legs wrapped around Sinbad over him, and he can’t determine how to loosen his grip on the other. He contents himself instead with unwinding his fist on Sinbad’s hair, just enough so he can lift his hand to stroke through the locks instead of clutching to them with the force of a lifeline.

Sinbad shifts against Ja’far’s shoulder, turning his head in to nuzzle against the other’s neck with all the languid comfort of a cat stretching itself into a sunbeam. When he speaks the words are muffled to warmth so Ja’far feels them as much as he hears them. “Now then,” he says, punctuating with the lingering weight of his lips against Ja’far’s shoulder, just over the dip of his collarbone. “You had something very official and important for me, isn’t that right?”

Ja’far breathes out, hard so the sound falls somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I  _ did_,” he says. “If you really think I remember it now, Sin…”

Sinbad laughs again. “That’s fine,” he says. He shifts to the side fractionally; the hold of his arm urges Ja’far to follow him until they’re both lying on their sides atop the sheets. “Luckily for you I’m a patient man.” He kisses a little farther along Ja’far’s shoulder, the drag of his lips warm enough that it distracts Ja’far from the disbelieving laugh he is trying to offer in answer to this claim. “We can wait as long as you need to remember what it was.”

Ja’far would protest this approach if he were really concerned about recalling his subject. Trying to bring his mind to focus on affairs of state when his body is radiant with such a pleasant ache is near-impossible, and any slim chance he had at success is certain to be entirely undone by the heat Sinbad is presently pressing along his shoulder as he works his way in towards the middle of Ja’far’s chest. But his tension is gone, stripped away from him by the same form that is still pressing flush against his own body, and he can’t find anything more pressing for his attention than curling around Sinbad before him. He draws a deep breath into his chest; and then Sinbad’s lips skim his skin, and he lets it go into a sigh that leaves him heavy atop the blankets.

“It’s fine,” Ja’far says. “I’ll deal with it later.” Sinbad hums satisfaction at this, and ducks his head in under Ja’far’s chin, and Ja’far turns his head to the side and lets Sinbad kiss the dip just between his collarbones while he winds his fingers into the weight of Sinbad’s loose hair tangling around the both of them together.


End file.
